Archives for posts with tag: Fleeting Pixel

Lies aslant | just fallen | Meaning howls outside it, wanting to win, but this languor | has no victors | Call out into the snow, see how it answers? | Stroke a sleeve, being | glided to rest | breathe a stillness | back to the roots | the source | very young | moves an eye | trembling

Victim, not started yet | not called out | Peaceful, in a drift of gestures | waiting | quietly, blindly | patiently | like unworn clothes | hanging | Dew slips down grasses | moon | still visible | Carnage after, not now | Thrown and landed | just so | Dreams, neither | ended, a glisten | of scales, gills’ deepen | a slow | panting | Rolls, and opens | Fresh | birth, rain coming, also

••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Over and against | the storm, the solitary raindrop | that touches your face | is out of balance but is | what you feel | a sharp cool | point of salience || I am empty | like a ship that has | had its cargo removed | grain or salt | tractors | toys || Float lighter | without purpose | awaiting the grip | of a burden which | never arrives || She wrote that the clouds were like mourners | awaiting the birth of rain || Trailing a squall of gulls | up the slope | the farmer | steers and climbs | the ploughed earth’s | pleats curve and | swirl the field | When the wheat comes | and takes off its dress | the ripening is so | naked…

Holding up the next sign, the new | sign | the one you care for or are | paid for | the horned sign, the crooked | sign | the most pressing, the inevitable, the essential, the necessary | sign | this sign || that sign || How fast it all | seems to happen | these days || Yes, and he was | right | how the current of the | past | takes us and we | push on into it | ceaselessly with our | future wishes… || Night is gliding | over the face of the Earth and the dawn is | breaking | over the face of the Earth | one chasing the other | a dream subsiding | into the grind, the grind | shot through with | threads of Eros, strands of adventure! | on-rushing | to subside in | a new dream | or maybe | an old dream you have | forgotten? || Bonding | all by | choosing some and | losing all | that is the scrape of | fiction and life | the hot | gates | we form, for better or for worse | we open our global | mouths and | bite off | some fragment of a | desired locale | the quiet bed, the | orange trees in flower, the | nursery with BingBing and yellow | velvet-skinned | Boulogne || But don’t be | fooled || Like the carcase of | antelope or | deer | In the Graveyard of Ships | the beached hulks | rust and | are lit | by the abrasive | stars as | angle-grinders | take back the wounded parts | towards the shining cave | of another whole

••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Wanting the cups back into shape again | and the salmon-coloured walls with their screens | of sleep and unloving | projected | Our shadows, though | aren’t quite right | some novelty has | crept into them | What is different | about our caresses? | How did that hint of a | river slip into them? | What has changed? | Why do they feel | less intense/more | intense, less | natural, more | desperate?, less | passionate, less | rehearsed? | More | strange? || Focus | once again | has slipped, there is this | shimmer under | the images, an | uncertainty to do with | moments || How did we | reach this point, our bed a | memory of hands reaching up to | feed voracious gulls? || When did this | process begin? || And where are you going | with those trees and their | footsteps of roots and earth so steady, like the tread | of armies or of blinded hearts?

Coda || The calmer times | How the wake settles | after our rowing boat has | surged on a few more | cycles of dipping oars and floating | oars with their | images shattered and | collapsed and | forgotten || Put the walls up again | sip tea | out in the courtyard garden | Hang the south in its | usual place | needing the sky | to behave like a sky, to be called | a sky, to | make its standard | connection with the tops of the | pear trees and the memory | of the sycamore the storm | broke some | years before || ‘H’ after ‘G’, asking | the hours to honour | their order, even to the point of | moving too fast, now, taking too much | now | Wanting the eyes in my heart to stay | open | the paths to lead | back home, to the office, the deli, the theatre… || Or do I? || How does it work out | in the end? | you say | your voice | dropping crumbs of | toast and honey | the edge of your mouth | tingled with silver || How still the weather | seemed that day I | can’t | remember || Building the wreck may | take a lifetime || Call this poem, “rain check”?

••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Heat martyrs | Peach one-piece, pool a patter of vanishings | lush spray | shot to vapour in my indolence, Sir Sun | thou art an… errant… | Time’s indigents, we no longer strut or | tauten to the faintest | zephyr of a caress | but sole-flat pad and flop, grin | with a silvery arthritis | mouth gnawed on gleaming crowns | Knowing many | ways of knowing | still I am a dunce | at summer school | the ta-ra-la-la of tiny | ethereal trumpets | rattle in my ear | fanfares to oblivion | A monster of torpor | accumulated over the years | no thing for chat shows | only for webcams or | lairs in zoos | denizen | of a former era | apologist | for a corrupt | regime | At wit’s end | laze in a stupor | set aside my tools | of Sappho and polygons | ignore the shade | but bake and glaze | almost free | of any need | for liberty | Today, rather a cloud | casting a juvenile shadow | than the light | with its ancient machines | inane and floating | registered only to the art of rain | Not oneself, that’s how it goes | a conversation | like choristers | gossiping before choir | And always too early to say… | As to termini | the young have a lithe wisdom | I kid myself | they’ll carry my long body | as the tribesmen bear | the great serpent into the city | maybe they kid themselves | they’ll be sure | when the time comes | of precisely the right moment | to put me down

Staked out by the metal rays | hung on egos | from trees | ghost-formed by unchecked kudzu | simmering in perfumed oil | plunged to gasp and writhe | in freezing water | only the silvery peaks of the most regal | skyscrapers | escape the tendrils of the climbing weeds | the mental state | grown sclerotic | clogged with damp and rot | from miracles of flowers | chat of gods and antimatter | of black holes and social justice | mushes | slips in sludge | sideways | gloops down | pools in cisterns | drains | tunnels | your entire notion of reality: doze | Oh, Meneer, your musket has crumbled, and your beard | is full of the flash and smatter of wings | and buskin, baby, is long | out of fashion | do you want to start a trend? | Is this your “look”? | In Toytown | explosions occur | almost daily | assassination is a constant threat | no one’s heard from Schneewittchen for years | I heard she ended up in the Valley | and, naturally, she was doing drugs | Connected | but the dead spider doesn’t | feel the fly | convulse and judder in her web | Hordes of kids | out in fast cars | searching for the next sensation | I hear their hunting horns | the breeze | carries across the rooves | of the poorest suburbs | treasure of aspiration for weaker minds | Here the nymphs | text and cuss in a sudden slang | I am | a sunken wreck | upon my back I lie | at the bottom of the pool | rigid and holding out | my arms to embrace | the whorled and rippled sky | through the hazed fathoms | of chlorinated void | and with a sput! and fizzle! | out of the morbid | vines of my brain | once in a while | a flower of ruthless jewel-like red | fires and glories | Did we make a | massive error, all of us | the citizens | so terrified by the squirming lengths | of mercury and black? | We thought the natives were bringing | from green jungle | the snake into our city | but was the danger not ingress? | Instead, were they taking away forever | the terrible serpent | leaving us to a safer future | in calm cafés and pop-up bistros | a secure life | clearly ruled | by Google and frappuccinos?

••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Elegant, but without purpose | In remote caves, hermits | polish their isolation, peg out | their spirits in a speechless sun | to writhe and | truly | be | Pervasive, yet unfelt | ambient | unnoticed | A riddle | no one is asked | intricate | punning | On TVs, murderous bombast | from concerned politicians | softened | into byways | sidings | pallid ferns | seen through frosted glass | Natural, like the growth of horn | nail | Rolls and spins | not yet | altered to arrest | pinched, vicissitudes in winter | Fenced back, but ended in a motel, lost hours | startling | young deer in a green glade | Made a | hollow | by sleeping heads | inane | fronds wave in glacial currents | shed wings | stood | walked and shed | bones | shed | seeds | lay down | slithered, shed | scales | clumped | hunched | grew | slower | emitted spines | disclosed | unsettling perfumes | popped | shrunk | shed thought | shed care | ceased | dreaming

Collecting holes | Secret | momenta | what the rain | needs from the walls | Follow | the contours | Flow round | the obstacles | Tickets | in pockets | discovered | later | journeys’ | dust | Distilling | occult | liquors | Run for a train, drop | your newspaper | Glands | swell | Heads | burst | Contains | disappointment | Roots | curl out, feel | Sleep very deeply, gliding down | like snowflakes | falling to snowflakes | scarecrow of nerves | gossip | Seeks light, claims | space | Mushrooms indifferently across highways | Flowers | in graveyards | Made sense, but only to a few | Rode silently through town at dusk, for some, their last sunlight passing

••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

By the time we got there it had already changed | We wanted it to be like it was in the photographs | from the 1950s | Arriviste summer | spring overwhelmed and the green gross | blasé | Given head, it rushed and sprinkled | in its veins, it was its nature | a cathedral drowned in grass, butterflies | adapting to a drier climate | a camouflage of dirt and concrete | Winter gold was how it should have been | not with fruiting persimmons | lovely enough to drive the monks to burn it down | not a replica | Sure, it has its secret, but we feel | it isn’t the secret, anymore | not the proper secret | allure has spilled and leaked away | we don’t really care what it says, and perhaps | it doesn’t care, either | It made me weep | to listen to you on the plane | home | to feel the old pull | stupid and hopeful, as are we all | that should we go back | we would find | the buildings had flipped again, the mood | turned overwhelming, like a first sight of the ocean | that the day | had been carried into itself, once more | and had altered everything | to remain the same

Indifference massed around it | shaped in photographs and flashes | the sluggish yammer of guides and tourists | hiss of bag on slicker, plump | billow of stiffened umbrellas as the rain | (ageless and inscrutable) | gathered the temple into a thunderous shower | a pulsating bag of murk | with enough silver to betray | millions of gods and buddhas | A stick broken off from the main plant | somehow survives a long journey to | split out of its skin | first burgundy buds, then | green of the youngest and most delicate | of mayflies’ wings | Everyone was writing in those days, not because | they were any good at it, but because | they felt the pull towards | the notional audience | but there was | nobody, for the most part | just empty theatres in flatscreen | LCD cities (also | abandoned) | and the cruel | goblins of vanity | slowly scratching away at our spirits | making us more desperate, bitter, hungry in the name | of others and beauty | We made it a temple, but in truth | it was gold leaf and ancient pine | tile and bronze and teak | it trapped voices as it always had, though | dwindling numbers of them | and, oddly, we were either stupid, and stayed on, or | we grew less hopeful | it was a strange | time, given the wealth we had and the luxury | of hours and | resources to burn… | Sometimes, you do still find one | among the longer grass, at the woods’ | edge | near dropped nests | slumped in its own muteness | hurting itself to shine again | as if | nothing had changed, and words | still meant something more than | words do | as if | you could take it entirely apart and discover, at the end | a secret, perfect and intact | the significance | of the skies and rusting | prams and | weeds and tiny bones and scattered feathers at the heart

••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Pauses dotted their conversation | She had the fear | there was no one at the end of her voice | when she stopped speaking | there was a darkness, a scent of rotting apples, damp, summer heat, mould | Could he believe his way back into beauty? | It was a big ask | The years had gradually eroded his faith in such things | Alone, he wandered around the property | the fields, the scrubland near the perimeter fence | the blue rusting tractor parked in the woods | presumably for decades | a high-water mark | of effort or lethargy | She admired the crows | picking at the carcase of a rabbit | should she accept | the gift?

He rang from Marrakesh | She imagined the desert | a certain existential grace | a place one should not go | oddly dependable, in a calm, murderous way | a non plus ultra | The rebels were moving in | to the shattered outskirts of the town | once a government stronghold | In their bowl, the goldfish | with their lidless eyes | knew nothing of sleep | and so | she assumed | nothing of dreams, either | Without dreams, what could their endless waking be? | Slowly the past was claiming | her entire life | everything was turning | to memory | a petrified forest | where no birds sang | His thoughts | floated to the bottom of the silence | like the corpses of fish | settling on the sea-bed | They abandoned the reforms | bowed to the Right | and this ushered in | a difficult period for migrants | It was an anvil with no need for hammers | at once massive and delicate | The engine stopped, and no matter | what they tried | they couldn’t get it going again | And Henry meant to organise a truck | to tow | but

••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

I wait for the moment | It’s what I do | Not yet, the dragonfly | although the leaves are dry and ready to fall, so they are right | and the sky is right | a poised, complete, exhausted blue | The bullies are in the correct position, they are so taut | they’ve been in the sun all afternoon, and, stripped to the waist | are sunburnt and lithe | they are on time | they’re not carpenters | and they shouldn’t be | they’re out of work | the summer has been too long for them, and they’ve been drinking | Who will they hurt? | Maybe no one | but I think they will | hurt someone… | Everyone falls quiet when the ambulance goes by | its siren sounding | then, although people eventually start speaking again, it’s as if there is a hole in the day | and so evening comes on | It’s a delicate matter | perhaps all things | are delicate matters? | the stones, as well as the flowers? | It might be the wrong century | or the wrong latitude | and the heart must be ready | the balance | needs to be perfect | the callous against the tender | the innocent against the wise | perhaps more defeat than victory | there has to be sadness | you will surely have lost | the people who held you up | when you were young | and those who | with the terrible gift of their departure | announced to you that you were young no longer | another | very delicate matter, do you know? | And it must all fit in | not just the lightning but the whole storm | and the sound of raindrops dripping | from the branches of motionless pine trees | not long after the storm has passed | a lovely sound | so peaceful | and much can be learned from it | even if this is not | the moment | There will be lovers | Not necessarily | nearby | maybe far away | but they will be involved | their potential must always be promised | or nothing would quite make sense | Children should be there | in the same way as the lovers | even the ones who are screaming | because they have dropped their toys | fiery little emperors | tsarinas of a whole world’s court | their lack of perspective is crucial | the distance they will have to go | the awful | vertigo of understanding | the nature of the impersonal | The bleached white concrete by the pool is right | the zoo’s flamingos | ruffle and preen | their sumptuous pink | that shocks still | is right against the concrete and geometry | of the pool | the sky | has remained right | even the dragonfly is right now | and I wonder | am I actually waiting anymore? | So | delicate | Perhaps it will be me | they hurt?

••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

And actually no thought or voice, but keeping place, marking | the silence | with a made-up sound | say, “meadow” | and a blue-and-white striped marquee | empty, overnight, after the wedding | the guests elsewhere | No longer building, but, with the sea, staving off | ruination | with moving lightly | like clouds in a dream | Admiring | the prettiest scar | driving at 3 a.m. | the radiance on the horizon | is the sleeping city of Detroit, where they built the cars

Also, as knights in a fable, lost on quests, pursuing phantoms | of a sorcerers’ agenda | a slow, inglorious fizzling out | drowning in their heavy armour | at the bottom of clear streams | among the lush, quiet green of a mythical England | skulls in helms | Those wounds | which bleed and bleed | enrichen and weaken | simultaneously | much to say and more to care | as supplies grow scarce | and the ocean’s porous fists | pound the crumbling shore | and every place more an island | with each melt | and fiercer thaw | Like castle towns in the distance | rendered vague by mist or storm | no grounds for betrothal | or at least, this was the feeling | of one of the parties | Like those wild, evangelical spirits | who embrace devastation | from calm rooms, down elm-lined avenues | As if, through a series of moments, each a puzzle, to arrive in a starving nation | where no puzzles matter anymore, but how to eat | Broken down, changing the wheel | of a sixties’ Packard | worried | we would not get there | Like being happy with the outcome | even though we realised | we had been conned | And actually, no ear or word | no call | no sound at all | but the chatter of wealthy brokers | proposing new problems | to evade love, an old solution

••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Taking a train to the city | Contributing to the economy | Leaving your mark and your | lack of mark | Everywhere central | the June evening | diffuses people through the streets | in plazas | of course, we will | come to the flowers | waterlilies | floating in a pond | What do they want with you? | who survey but yet | do not notice you? | Step out of line | the cameras bloom | with struggle and pepper spray | Flee the disturbances | the cracks in the order | drive for miles, out into the country | sleep in the back of the car | a bruised | copy of Heine in your pocket | it just | happened to be Heine | At sundown | far from retreat | the moments assign | greater or lesser graves | And will you | go to the sea, or will the sea | come to you? | Willows, very still, and life | set to zero | stays at zero…

Ich Kann Es Nicht Vergessen | the shadow of a ladybird on the page | but then the white horses in lush meadow | seen from the car | somehow the sea | is coming for you | Riots on the news and fire | are the people coming back, after so long? | realising again | they’re not just people, but “the people”? | They are covered | The mood drifts | We were happy, laughing at the party | watching an antique magic lantern show | but the morning after | beside the canals | was subdued | a classical melancholy | The soul | is out of fashion | the body | all the rage | with its pertinent flaws and needs | then | with a shine like blurring aphids’ wings | a dream rises | tigerish | mauls the sodium and the clay | An “incident on the line” | delays your train | at rest in the warm evening | in a foreign country | the breeze | indolently stirs | fields of ripening grain | Don’t struggle | Be happy | You find | you can’t recall their name | find the e-mail | or the photos you thought | you’d saved | The years shear off | take a different path | but you’re content | and settled in a smaller grave

••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)